The Portrait
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: For months Comte Michel de Bordelon has wondered about the destruction of his portraits of Inquisitor Lavellan. He is about to get his answer.


**A/N:** Written for a friend who requested I write about an angry Venara Lavellan putting an Orlesian asshole in their place. I decided to try something different for this one and write it from a different perspective than Venara's. Thanks for reading!

* * *

 **The Portrait**

Comte Michel de Bordelon jiggled his leg impatiently and downed a sip of brandy. His nostrils furled at the lingering scent of charcoal on his fingers. The smell always interfered with the enjoyment of his drink. His mentor, the great Adelain de Laclos, disapproved of alcohol in the studio, but Michel disagreed. It soothed the mind and freed the imagination, opening the painter to a greater realm of artistic possibility.

Across the small, warm room, Minette lolled on the chaise-longue, hands gesturing wildly as she chirped excitedly about court gossip. Her incessant chatter had begun fifteen minutes ago, drowning their session in an endless stream of posits and queries, ranging from the rip in Lady Hélène Toussaint's hem to the meaning behind the Duke de Chalons' mistress' colourful hat. She was so impassioned by her gossip she had barely bothered to adjust the sheer silk sheet draped around her naked body. It had slipped down elegantly around her waist, flowing around her curves as she arched her back, displaying her prominent breasts.

Minette was one of his favourite models—stunning, scandalous and eager to push for more daring and vibrant poses. She was his muse. While their relationship was strictly professional, sometimes their sessions ended in a more candid manner, with Minette bent over a worktable, paint streaked across her luscious back, the scent of lust and sex heavy in the musty air.

She lived for shock and awe, which delighted Michel as he _also_ lived for shock and awe. It was part of the Game. He would always remember his first true achievement, the move that both made him worthy of playing among the greats and marked him as a master painter. His aunt's rival had a daughter, an innocent, naïve wisp of a thing with an eye for art. It had been an easy enough thing to convince her to model for him under the pretence of tutoring her. With some careful prodding, he had persuaded her that the painting would be enhanced by the removal of her clothes. Though nothing carnal had occurred between them, the young lady's mother certainly thought so when the painting had been revealed at an exhibition—as did the entire Orlesian aristocracy. Her virtue had been ruined, her family fleeing to Antiva in shame. And Michel was left with his aunt's pride and a portrait deemed worthy of enough artistic merit to hang in the galleries of Val Royeaux.

Minette's hands fluttered as she threw herself back against the cushions, hand resting dramatically against her forehead. "Have you not listened to a word I said, _mon chère?"_ she said, pouting her lips. She toyed with the edge of the sheet, edging it further down her body.

Michel frowned and averted his gaze. She was doing this on purpose. To test him. Tease him. Rile him. He had been distracted of late and had not given Minette his usual copious amount of attention. A week ago he had been informed that his most famous portrait— _L'Inquisitrice à la forteresse de Skyhold_ —had been destroyed. In fact, _all_ copies of the portrait had been destroyed. Burned to ash. There was only one that remained, the first version he had painted not long after he returned from Skyhold. It was inferior by far to the others, but it was still a thing of beauty. And it hung here, in his studio.

"Michel?" Minette pressed. "Have you not—"

"Andraste's mercy, woman, does your prattle never cease?" Michel snapped, standing so abruptly his chair tilted and crashed to the floor.

Minette jumped at the sound. She watched, eyes wide, as he crossed the room, boots thundering on the marble floor. He reached the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle and poured another glass of brandy.

"Don't you ever tire of hearing your own voice?" he said, brow furrowed as he drained the glass and poured another. "All this meaningless nonsense you spout as if it is the most important thing in the world—"

Minette crossed her arms. "It _is_ the most important thing in the world," she said. "The court is changing. The court _has_ changed. There are new players, new deceits, new rules. You must learn them or you, too, will become their victim. Why else do you think Florianne de Chalons lost her head?"

Michel nearly choked on his drink. "She made an impossible gamble and gambled poorly," he said.

"Wrong." Minette stood, wrapping the silk sheet around her. "She was a fool blinded by her own ambition."

"She underestimated her brother," Michel said.

Minette crossed to the liquor cabinet and opened it, the sheet slithering softly behind her. "Wrong again," she said, pouring herself a drink. "She underestimated the Inquisition."

Michel barked a laugh. "The Inquisition? They were there at Gaspard de Chalons' request."

"His request or Josephine Montilyet's?" Minette sipped her drink coolly.

"Josephine Montilyet? What does she have—"

"How else would a heretical organization be welcomed into the heart of the Orlesian court?" Minette interrupted. "Not by invitation. Not by request. Gaspard despises the Game, he's not clever enough to use the Inquisition for his own personal gain. But the opposite? The Inquisition needs Orlais. It needs her armies and her vote of confidence. Mark my words, Josephine Montilyet wormed her way into Gaspard's graces in order to place the Inquisition in a favourable position to influence the empire's future. To believe otherwise is to be foolish."

Minette downed her drink and returned to the chaise-longue, sashaying her way through the endless clutter of Michel's easels, paints and props.

"How do you know this?" Michel asked.

"Gossip," Minette said, dropping the sheet and stretching out luxuriously on the chaise-longue. "If you paid attention to such things, you would know. Just as you would know that the Inquisition is in Val Royeaux."

"What?"

"Gabrielle Dumont saw their representatives in the market," Minette said with a shrug. "She saw Inquisitor Lavellan with her own eyes."

"Why have I not heard of this before?" Michel snapped.

"I can't help it if you choose to surround yourself with canvas and foul-smelling oils instead of people," Minette replied, sitting up and fluffing out her dark brown hair. She curled a lock around a finger. "If you went outside now and again, you would know such things."

"Why are they here?"

"Who knows? Perhaps they were enticed by the smells and sounds of the Belle Marché. Perhaps it's for more… _discreet_ business." Minette wet her lips. "They say she's mad, you know."

"Who?"

"The Inquisitor!" Minette flopped back on the pillows. "You should hear the stories coming out of Halamshiral. What she did to Duchess Florianne… I know she committed treason and murdered the empress in cold blood, but _still._ To be dispatched in such a horrific way… with magic? It's the work of a madwoman. Or at least that's what they say." She crossed one leg over the other and bounced her foot in the air. "You've met her. Would you say that she's mad?"

"Mad how so?" Michel asked.

"Mad like… oh, I don't know, mad like that mage who destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall. Aren't all mages unhinged? Too strong of a connection to the Fade. It plays with their minds."

Michel snorted. "Sounds fanciful, if you ask me."

Minette rolled her eyes. She pulled a lock of hair over her shoulder, tugging at the curl until it trailed over her breast. She arched an eyebrow. "Shall we continue?" she said, pouting her lips. "Or are we finished for today?"

Michel sighed heavily. "We shall continue." He returned to his canvas and frowned at the sketch. It was wrong. All wrong. The pose, the sheet, all of it. Minette's words about the Inquisition made him think of the Inquisitor herself, which, in turn, led him to his destroyed paintings.

He ripped down the canvas.

"That bad?" Minette said with a small, tinkling laugh.

"We shall begin again," he said. "The mind of a master cannot be rushed."

Minette reached for the sheet and draped it over herself. "As before?" she asked.

"Not quite as before," Michel replied. He stepped out from behind his easel, crossing to the chaise-longue and manipulated the sheet so it draped sensually over Minette's body. The promise of skin was more tantalizing than the view of it. "There."

Minette grinned wickedly at him and seized him by the shirt, pulling him in and crushing her mouth to his.

"Why must you ruin things so quickly, Minette?" he said against her lips.

"I'm not ruining them," she said huskily. "I want to make sure you capture me in my best light."

He smiled and bent over her, kissing her fiercely.

The door opened.

"Comte de Bordelon, I thought I would find you here."

Michel spun, blood rushing to his cheeks. His lip curled, furious at the interruption. His house staff knew better than to interrupt him during a session, how did these people—

"My lady Josephine," he said, freezing as he realized who had entered the room. "I did not realize you had called."

"Of course you didn't," Josephine Montilyet said amicably as she swept him a well-practiced curtsy. "How would you when you've locked yourself away for an entire afternoon?"

She smiled, her sunny disposition almost as bright as her gold dress. She locked gloved fingers together as she stepped further into the room, glancing around at the paintings—finished and unfinished—displayed on the walls. She took it all in, completely unfazed when she saw Minette, naked and sprawled on the chaise, pale skin shining with sweat.

"Hello, Madame Bécu," she said with a nod.

"Josephine," Minette replied, nodding back. "What brings you to Michel's abode? If you are searching for a session, I'm afraid he is booked for the rest of the month. Though I am certain he would make you a lovely portrait."

"Thank you, but as you can imagine, I have a preference for Antivan portraitures," Josephine replied smoothly. "They are far more, shall we say, _honest."_

Minette rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath about Antivan decorum.

"I cannot say I'm not delight, my lady," Michel said, a tightness growing in his throat, "but as you can see, I am quite busy. Perhaps you can come back another day—"

"We have," Josephine said, gracefully settling into a chair without asking. "We were here yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that. And always, it was the same answer. _Monsieur le Comte is busy. Monsieur le Comte is in session. Monsieur le Comte cannot be disturbed._ I'm afraid there comes a time, Michel, when you _must_ be disturbed. You cannot keep the Inquisitor waiting forever."

"The Inquisitor?" Michel clicked his tongue. "What can she possibly want? I have heard nothing from her since my visit to your—ah— _esteemed_ fortress. What have I done to merit a visit from a woman more important than an empress?"

"More than enough," a voice said behind them.

Minette's eyes widened, her lips parting just slightly in surprise. Josephine's eyes danced, a faint satisfied smirk on her face.

Michel turned.

Venara Lavellan stood before him, a different woman from the one he remembered meeting all those months ago.

She had rid herself of her worn, travel-stained leathers and wools, replacing them with a dress that would draw every eye in the Orlesian court. Dark green silk fell to the floor in long, loose folds, the skirt cut to allow for easy movement. The bodice was fitted to her small, flat frame, somehow accentuating what little she had to show in a way that turned her imperfection into an asset. The gown was sleeveless, accommodating for the warm weather, and showcased the obnoxious tattoos that curled down her arms. Tiny leaves embroidered with gold thread criss-crossed the bodice, the imagery reminiscent of her Dalish heritage and the colour matched to her tattoos. Whoever had designed the dress had calculated it perfectly to create something that was in fashion, unique and spoke to her identity of battlemage and Dalish elf.

Her hair was pulled back, braided and coiled on top her head like a crown to display her pointed ears. She wore no makeup, not even powder to mask the scars and strange tattoos that blemished her face, save for the smallest amount of kohl around her startling green eyes. Gold earrings hung from her earlobes, matching the gold band coiled around her upper right arm.

She was still a small woman—she couldn't change that—but she carried herself with such an air of power and command that it felt like she was the tallest person in the room.

"Comte Michel de Bordelon," Lavellan said. "I can't say that it's a pleasure to see you again."

Regardless of her words, Michel bowed. It was the proper thing to do. He might dislike the woman, but he was not uncouth. "Then why are you here?" he said, rising. "Why storm my studio invited?"

"We are not storming," Josephine began, but Michel raised a hand and spoke over her.

"This is a private session, Inquisitor," he said. "Whatever matter it is you must discuss with me, it can wait for another day. Please leave. It is uncivilized to demand an audience unannounced."

"If I remember correctly, Comte," Lavellan responded, _"you_ came to _my_ home uninvited and demanded an audience unannounced."

"Skyhold is not your home, Inquisitor," Michel countered. "It is a military, diplomatic and religious centre. Thousands flock to your walls every day. Do the peasants and pilgrims need an invitation? I think not."

"They don't come to me with demands," Lavellan said. She had not moved since the confrontation began, holding herself like a statue carved from marble. _"You_ did."

"You confuse me, Inquisitor," Michel said. "I came to Skyhold to learn of your organization and see it for myself. I came to meet _you_ , the Herald of Andraste, a saviour to some, a heretic to others. I wanted to judge for myself who you were, as did my aunt and those travelling with me. We came. We spoke. There were no demands." He chuckled coldly. "And if I remember correctly, it was _you_ who so rudely cut our appointment short, running off when a messenger came calling—"

"You had ulterior motives," Lavellan said, her face flushing with anger. Her eyes, already so intense, narrowed dangerously. _"Specific_ ulterior motives."

Michel stared at her. What was she talking about? Was she mad? Envisioning something that had never happened? There were rumours about her instability already—whispers more than rumours, muttered in dark corners or in passing at salons. After the Empress' death and the debacle at Halamshiral there were more than a few concerned words about Inquisitor Lavellan.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Michel said. "Now please leave. Before I send for the city guard—"

Lavellan raised a hand. "No need. I did not come here for you." She strode forwards, weaving her way through the paraphernalia scattered across the room.

Michel frowned. "Minette?"

Lavellan sighed wearily. "Why would I care what you do in your spare time, comte?" she said. "Who you sleep with matters as little to me as what you had for breakfast." She continued on her way, determination in every movement as she searched the room, passing by the naked Minette without a second glance.

Minette pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. She could barely contain her glee.

"Lady Montilyet," Michel said, his face reddening, "I insist that you and the Inquisitor leave at once. This is a ridiculous waste of my time—"

"And what of the time we have wasted?" Josephine replied. "You could have saved yourself much time and trouble if you had answered us earlier this week."

Michel vaguely recalled his butler telling him he had had visitors, but he had not inquired as to _who_ had come to call. He had been… occupied.

He tried not to look at Minette.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want," Michel said, frustration twisting his voice.

"What I want, comte," Lavellan said as she stopped in a corner, flipping through discarded canvases one by one, "is a painting."

Michel stiffened. "If you want to negotiate a commission, you can speak to my manager."

"I don't want a new one," Lavellan said. "I want one that already exists. I want _this_ one."

She held up a small canvas, her fingers clenched so tightly around the wood frame that her knuckles turned white. Michel's heart raced as he saw the painting.

He should have guessed. He should have known.

She was holding _her_ portrait.

He had painted it the day he returned from Skyhold. He had painted it from memory—even when she had been an uncouth wildling, covered in dirt and swearing in elven and without a single notion of how to play the Game, she had made an impression. She possessed a unique beauty, uncultured and untapped. He had captured it, smoothing away the blemishes and imperfections, painting her as she _should_ be: a lady in her own right, a leader to rival royalty. It was the first portrait of the Inquisitor ever made and he painted it to make an impression.

He painted it to add to his name.

Michel de Bordelon, an Orlesian master. Artist of kings, queens, champions and inquisitors.

The difference between the woman in the portrait and the living, breathing woman holding it was stark. They were hardly the same person at all. One was a demure gentlewoman of the court, squeezed into a vivacious Orlesian gown, powdered until her dark skin shone white, elven ears hidden behind voluminous hair, tattoos erased. The other was a Dalish mage shaking with rage and glowing green.

…glowing green?

Michel's mouth opened in shock as he stared at the Inquisitor. A green mark had flared to life on her left palm, its light spiralling up her arm. The room had very cold. Michel could see his breath rising in the air. He glanced at Minette, who was shivering on the chaise-longue, clutching the silk sheet to her chest.

He had heard of the Inquisitor's power, of her ability to close tears in the Veil. He had never seen one of these rumoured rifts, but here was her ability, on display, a magic that she alone possessed.

He felt ill.

"Venara," Josephine said quietly.

Lavellan's eyes snapped to her. "We have what we came for," she said. "Let's go."

Lavellan crossed the room, the portrait still in her hands, Josephine following a few steps behind. She walked quickly for a woman so short. It was clear from her body language that she wanted nothing more than to be out of the studio. Good. Michel wanted nothing more than to see her go.

Something clicked in his mind.

"It was you," he said. "You destroyed my paintings. My art."

Lavellan stopped. She turned, fury in her eyes. "Yes."

"You had no right," Michel hissed.

"I had _every_ right, you despicable man," Lavellan said.

"It was my work!"

"And it's _me_ you painted!" Lavellan shouted. "Or, at least, a woman you claimed to be me. You erased everything about me from that portrait. This woman is no more Venara Lavellan than that woman on your couch."

Michel flushed. He could not admit, not even to himself, that in an uninspired moment during the creation of the Lavellan portrait, he had asked Minette to pose for him—simply so he could have a body in space to reference.

"You showed me nothing but disrespect," Lavellan continued, voice shrill with anger. "Disrespect for my culture, my heritage, my people. You knew nothing about me, so you made me into something you could understand. _But that's not me."_

" _It is my work!"_ Michel shouted.

"And you expect me to respect that?" Lavellan spat.

Josephine, lips pursed with concern, touched Lavellan on the shoulder. Lavellan shrugged her off. She was far too invested in her tirade now.

"You don't know me, comte," she said. "Do not think to know me. We had one conversation at Skyhold and you used that to legitimize your depiction of me. I cannot tell you how much that disgusts me."

"I painted you as I saw you," Michel snarled. "Not as you are, but as the woman you could be. That is the requirement for every portrait. Do you think our late empress resembled her royal portraits perfectly? Of course she didn't. She was idealized to suit the tastes of a nation. I merely did the same for you. You should be thanking me—"

" _Thanking you?"_

"Yes," Michel repeated. _"Thanking me._ I treated you like royalty. No other artist in Orlais would have given you that courtesy."

Lavellan's eyes flashed. A moment later, a sword of pure magic burst from her hand. Josephine yelped in surprise; Minette shrieked, scampering away to a corner of the studio. Michel stared in horror and fascination as he watched this beautifully gowned woman ram her magic sword through the centre of the canvas. Where the magic touched, the canvas burned. It curled back, black and smoking, until it reached the frame. The acrid stench of burnt paint filled the studio.

The sword disappeared, vanishing into thin air. Lavellan threw the frame at his feet. It cracked against the marble floor, smashing into pieces.

"Consider it a favour returned," Lavellan said. "It wasn't even that good."

She stormed out of the studio without a backward glance, the train of her dress whispering against the stone as she walked. Josephine glanced at the charred broken frame on the floor, her hands twisting together anxiously. She caught Michel's eye.

"Good day to you, comte," she said.

She closed the door on her way out. She didn't bother with a curtsy.

Michel remained where he was, eyes transfixed on the destroyed portrait. He crouched down, hands trembling as he reached for the pieces, terrified to even touch them. They looked like nothing more than charred pieces of wood, but they had been destroyed with magic. They were most likely cursed.

 _She's mad… She's fucking_ mad.

The Inquisitor had threatened him in his own home. She had walked in here with no one to stop her and unleashed _magic_ against him.

He glanced across the room. Minette was curled up in the corner, sheet pulled tightly around her, shaking with fear.

"I don't think it's merely gossip anymore, Minette," he said, voice cracking. "Inquisitor Lavellan is a madwoman."


End file.
